


Dogsong

by The Tinglenator (Misha_McCarthy)



Series: Supernatural One-Shots [24]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Dean Winchester Has PTSD, Drabble, Fear, Gen, Hell Trauma, Hellhounds, One Shot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Sam Winchester, Scared Dean Winchester, Short One Shot, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:21:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27788917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misha_McCarthy/pseuds/The%20Tinglenator
Summary: Dogs used to be cute, fluffy, maybe a bit annoying. Now all Dean can think about is the hellhounds, reeking of old flesh and lapping up his blood. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near a dog again. And as luck would have it, their next case is full of them. One-shot during season 4.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Supernatural One-Shots [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877215
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Dogsong

Most of the time, it wasn’t a problem. They didn’t own a dog, and pets weren’t particularly common in the hunting business. But today it became an issue.

It had, otherwise, been a pretty nice afternoon. He and Sam had shrugged on some jackets against the cool fall air and conducted a couple of “follow-up” interviews with victims who claimed that their loved ones would take the new family dog for a walk, but never return. In such a small town the pet clinics and pounds had a lot of pressure to put down their strays, which all victims said had been related to the disappearances. The one thing they got irrefutably right was the fact that such a huge amount of strays showing up in so little time couldn’t be normal.

Dean turned the computer around so that it would face Sam. “Kind of ironic that only a month ago, a group of moms kept complaining about the strays’ conditions until the city was forced to do something with them.” The article he’d found described these soccer moms with their high honour students writing to the newspapers and starting a school campaign in order to raise awareness. “Four out of the five women adopted dogs.”

Sam leaned in and glanced over the provided screen, where there was a picture of four women taking a group shot near the local vet office. “Why isn’t the fifth so adamant?”

“Not sure. She noticed the first couple of strays and encouraged her friends, but wanted to stay anonymous.” He grabbed a warm bottle of beer left on the table long after the sun had gone down. This was the one type of hunt he would have preferred they not get into, but there was no reasonable way to say “let’s allow some more families to go missing since I don’t feel like taking this case”. If Sam was willing to work at a circus despite his stupidly irrational fear of clowns, Dean was sure he could tough this one out.

“Maybe we’d better revisit one of the women tomorrow. They could probably tell us who the anonymous one is,” Sam suggested while taking a glance at the beer his older brother held, as if wondering whose bottle it’d originally been before Dean had taken a swig. He didn’t really care whether Sam took the first drink. Beer was beer, and he had a feeling he was going to need a lot of alcohol soon. Even just this morning had set him on edge.

The families they’d spoken to were in love with dogs; they were the only type of people who would take all the new strays, and even with these mysterious disappearances, the remaining owners hesitated to blame their dogs. The dogs they owned—and it was always more than one dog—were treated like absolute royalty. He hated going into their houses.

_The brothers exited the Impala and approached another house boasting a large, cared-for front yard and sidewalks littered with chalk scribbles. As they neared the door, little yips erupted from inside that echoed out into the street. Dean immediately came to a halt some feet from the door. Sam rang the doorbell, already too far ahead to take notice. One ruffling of his FBI suit later and Dean managed to meet the man at the door with a smile._

_Sam did the talking while they were inside._

_At first, all seemed well. The only canine to have appeared was a young chihuahua, something that was tiny, manageable, and quickly taken away by one of the widower’s kids, to top it off. But sometime during the man’s rant, a larger breed came in. Perhaps Sam could have told you what mix it was and the logical statistics for it deciding to kill you, but he had never been a fan of dogs like his younger brother, and all he saw was a large dog that might turn around and jump for his throat if he made the wrong move._

_The point at which the couch touched his back gathered moisture while his mind conjured the unforgettable smell, of all things, that came with being able to sense creatures from Hell. He watched the dog as though it was a hellhound still staring at him from the foyer of that house, aware that it would get its trophy soon. Regardless of whether eye contact was a wise idea or not, every inch of movement was noted until the front door finally closed behind them and Dean could pretend as though the dog didn’t exist anymore. Because if it still existed, it could still find him. Nothing keeps a hellhound at bay forever._

It was probably for his hatred of going back into that kind of situation which encouraged the universe to send them towards a similar house. The one Sam hoped to go to in particular had three labradors, all of which he’d managed to avoid by speaking with the daughter upstairs last time.

“Why the hell do you want to go to that one?” he asked, discarding the now emptied beer bottle.

“Because of the two women we spoke to who’re in this article, this one was the friendliest,” Sam said, as if it was plain to see. “If you don’t want to come you could always go by the shelter and ask about the strays’ behaviours. Maybe something will stick out.”

“No. It’s—that’d be a waste of time.” It was difficult to hide the fact that he’d rather swim with sharks or something just as incredibly moronic than find himself surrounded by so many dogs. But hiding things was what he did. He’d be damned if Sam gave him a pitiful look after realizing that Dean couldn’t get the imagery out of his head. Every dog now resembled those massive beasts, smiling and howling in triumph as they sank rows of stained teeth into his abdomen and yanked strings of flesh off by the pound.

OOO

The brothers strolled towards Lindy Treyman’s front door—or, more accurately, Sam strolled up while Dean meandered a few feet back, using some old tactics he’d developed to keep his emotions in check. The woman was just as energetic as she’d been the day before, though her daughter had left on errands and there’d been no word of her husband. It was just them, Lindy, and three huge dogs.

“So, Mrs. Treyman, have you been successful in protecting the strays?” Sam asked while stooping down in the kitchen to pet one of them. With an awkwardly quick smile and tense movements, Dean preferred to sit at the counter and focus on Lindy this time. Maybe these dogs would go off somewhere on their own.

“I’m afraid the town hates the dogs, pure and simple, Agent. They just won’t listen to me!” Lindy poured three coffees out, though he had no idea why she’d kept so much coffee on hand. He was just about to take in her appearance again when a blonde form moved in the corner of his vision.

It seemed like Sam petting the strays had encouraged one to trot up to his chair, swishing its tail back and forth rhythmically as if it took joy in the scent of fear he must have been giving off, and its beady eyes gazing past him deeply. Dean was sure that it would recognize the desire to run from the table before he’d be able to move a muscle. The only thing he could do was stay put.

In the background, some seemingly friendly conversation floated around. Two dogs were now cuddling up to Sam, content with his affection, nuding him for more. But he couldn’t look away from the dog that held his stare. It just sat there, knowing, watching, waiting. They were intelligent things. He couldn’t give it the chance to get the jump on him by looking away; if he did that, he’d be toast in—

A hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Agent Hanson, you okay?”

For a second, he made the fatal error of glancing up at Sam. Given the perfect opening to attack, all that the stray decided to do was get up and make its way to the living room, out of sight. “Uh… yeah, Agent…” No name came to mind, so Dean had to let the sentence die, reflective of how fast his thoughts were spinning around his head right now. Even _he_ didn’t know what he was thinking about—there was so much that it’d basically become a void for any coherent thoughts. The house was unfamiliar, this woman at the other end of the counter was unfamiliar, even the leftover taste of coffee seemed off. He stood up.

“Hey,” Sam said, a bit more softly. “Just hang out in the living room for a few more minutes and I’ll finish here, alright?”

He didn’t really consider why going to the living room was the best course of action, he just meekly made his way to the couch and sat down where he could still hear glimpses of their conversation. A clock ticked over the fireplace mantle where it was at home among cheap items that were supposed to seem expensive. Through beige curtains there drifted lazy beams of sunlight.

But despite the calm, he could still smell _dog_. For whatever reason—marking territory, being idiots—cats and dogs enjoy a house scented like themselves. No matter where he looked, the sense that dogs were nearby and probably watching him for the right moment to attack wouldn’t leave him be. After all that he’d been through in Hell and finally being able to relish in particular gifts they didn’t have down there, like sunlight, this feeling of dogs being nearby was a harsh reminder that he probably wouldn’t be headed for Heaven after evyerthing he’d done. Was it too much, asking for another simple hunt with Sam? It seemed like the universe was bent on seeing him dead. He’d already come close twice before. Couldn’t Sam hurry up and get them the hell out of here?

Then, it occurred to him that he could simply leave the house. It wasn’t as if anyone would take notice, anyways. What difference did it make if Sam was at his side? His brother had been only a few feet away, watching as the hounds ripped him apart, unable to do anything. Who’d he been kidding? This wasn’t a safe spot to wait things out. He had to get out of the house, now. It didn’t matter what happened afterwards; at least he’d be away from the attention of those…

… dogs. Two of them, sitting at the side of the couch, tilting their heads to watch him. How had they snuck up on him like that?

It didn’t matter. He knew where they were now, and luckily enough for him, they weren’t blocking his escape route to the front door. There was enough space between them for him to be able to get out, as far as he could estimate. But no matter how much his brain envisioned making a run for it, or how much his legs tensed to move and heart pumped with adrenaline, not even his gaze shifted an inch. All three just sat where they were, trying to figure each other out.

That is, of course, until the dogs grew impatient. Then one began to lick itself and another ventured forth to sniff at the Agent imposter. In Dean’s momentarily indecision, he allowed the dog to come within a foot of him.

“Sam! SAM!” It didn’t cross his mind that Sam was currently going by a different name, and if the dog had been intent on attacking him, his sibling was too far away to be of much help. “SAM!”

The stray didn’t take to the warning signs and instead placed its paws on the couch in order to make a better attempt at licking Dean’s chin. Its breath smelt like a hellhound’s presence, bloodied and covered in sinew, some areas burnt and other parts fresh. His hand met with the dog’s snout and he shoved it back as far as possible, then rose onto uncertain feet. He watched in panicked silence as the beast regained its composure and turned on him, displaying its teeth, greatly displeased at having been attacked. Deep growls emanated out of its throat. They soon developed into a bark as the dog’s mouth opened, readied for biting and slashing and ripping. All he had was a pocketknife. Didn’t matter. He’d stab it again, then again, and tear the petty blade down its hide without stopping as it howled in pain and whimper for mercy. He’d _make it_ whimper for mercy. Then he’d look such a creature in its beady, uncaring eyes...

A mop of brown hair came between them. “Dean, stop! What the hell are you doing?”

He glared at Sam, heart still going a hundred miles an hour while his surroundings came back into focus. A clock ticking over the fireplace, lazily drifting beams of sunlight through beige curtains, a female victim looking uneasy. All he got from looking back over to Sam was a shrug, meaning that Dean should be the one answering to all of this.

His hands found their way to his cheap suit, where they touched up his ruffled appearance by just the slightest bit. “Were we, uh,” he tried giving a nonchalant smile, “Done here?”

Sam rolled his eyes and propelled him towards the front door with a hand on his arm, as if saying ‘turn around, be silent, don’t do anything’. Behind them, Dean could hear Lindy following and a growl rising up from the couch area. Instantly he felt his back straighten a bit and it was all he could do not to swing the door off its hinges or dash down the driveway. He managed to choke down any words at the sight of the dog he’d had the encounter with sticking close to Lindy’s heels, and gave the widow a one-off wave. Past his heartbeat vibrating throughout his skull, the gravity of his footsteps, and the low hum of the dog’s lingering displeasure, there were the telltale signs of Sam politely apologizing and attempting to ensure she wouldn’t call the real feds later.

The Impala’s passenger door slammed shut a minute later.

“You’re lucky her dogs are well behaved,” Sam scorned while tugging off a tie in front of their rearview mirror. “If it had really gotten aggravated, it could have hurt you, Dean. Badly.”

He wasn’t sure if he should drive right now—he certainly didn’t _want_ to be behind the wheel while his blood pressure was still through the roof. The other thing he wasn’t in the mood to do was chat about more dogs after they’d finally gotten out of there. “Think I don’t know that?”

His tense tone caught Sam off guard, which was pretty easy to see in his younger brother’s expression while he whipped his head around. “You weren’t actually going to hurt a _dog_ , were you?” There was a pause, as if Sam was trying to reconsider what he’d been about to blurt. “Was there something wrong with them?”

“No, they were just—dogs…” _Dogs that looked so damn much like hellhounds._

He hated when Sam looked at him in that way, as if every thought was out in the open for Sam to hear. His younger brother wasn’t supposed to know the things he did in recent years. It was his job as an older sibling to protect him from that, no matter how childish the notion seemed nor how old Sam got. Though he’d chalk Sam’s next sentence up to having damaged his ego, somehow it felt like it was hurting something else, a purpose he cherished more. “Was it the… hellhounds?”

“No, it’s—no.” If he played it right, Sam would get pissed at Dean for hiding the fact from the world, and not for hiding it from his younger brother.

He wasn’t about to wait another five minutes while Sam found the least offensive way to state something, so during the discussion’s second considerable pause, the Impala roared to life and steered aimlessly through the neighbourhood. The younger Winchester turned to look out his passenger-side window. “Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have picked up this case.”

“It’s fine, Sam.” The signature unconvinced glare was waiting for him as he glanced over. “It just, y’know, he got in my face. I was surprised, that’s all.”

“You were going to wrestle with it if it came any closer. Look, just drop me off at another house and then we’ll call it quits, okay?”

“What’s at the house?”

“Nothing, I just need to make sure no one’s wondering why the feds skipped out.”

He shook his head. “We shouldn’t just abandon this one. We’re almost done, and you know it.”

Sam kept silent, except when giving directions.

* * *

After a minute of Dean insisting he’d come, but making no move to do so after hearing there’d be dogs inside, Sam slammed the door on him and ran up to the house of their anonymous woman. It’d quickly become clear that Dean hadn’t heard a single word in his conversation with Lindy. Sam would be able to confront the witch in here, finish the case, and hopefully do both without Dean’s notice. Of course, things never went so smoothly for them—but he was allowed to dream.

“Hi,” he greeted Mathilda, displaying a badge. “Agent Avidan.”

That didn’t particularly make her want to open the door, but eventually she welcomed him in wholeheartedly. “So why’s an Agent stopped in here?”

“Well, I had a chat with Lindy and June, and they were telling me all about your group’s mission to save the dogs.”

Mathilda nodded from where she busied herself with cleaning the kitchen area. “It’s a shame since the townsfolk aren’t taking to them. We want to find these strays as many homes as possible before… well, you’ve probably heard them discussing it on the news.”

“Yes, it’s unfortunate. I’m sure this place could house quite a few dogs until better locations are found.” Sam watched as the young woman’s gaze drifted away. “Your friends have already taken in fifteen, collectively. I heard you’d all planned to care for half a dozen pups, to train and nurture them, before the strays even came along. It’s very noble of you to take in grown dogs for the time being.”

She nodded slowly. “I do what I can.”

“Could I see a few of yours?”

“Agent, with all due respect, I have an entire house to clean here.” She smiled. “I’m sure you can understand.”

“’Course.” He produced a purple felt bag, probably meant for holding something small, like earrings—or spell ingredients. The local police had added it to the “evidence”, but because it seemed permanently sewn closed, they really hadn’t done anything with it. It would have been a waste of time to ask if anyone had lost it, so they became stuck with the odd thing. He’d been glad to take it off their hands. “Say, is this yours?”

The worry that overcame her for a second told the entire story. In a flash, his knife was out, ready to end this horrible streak of missing family members.

* * *

Dean had been waiting outside for a few minutes, window rolled down just in case. His mind kept going off like an alarm— _go in there! Why the hell are you waiting outside?_ But he just couldn’t propel himself out of the Impala.

Then he heard a scream.  
No, it wasn’t a woman’s cry of pain as portrayed in films, but more like someone chanting the words to a… “Sonuvabitch.”

Without taking the time to consider what he was doing, Dean burst from the car and nearly kicked the front door down, though he found it to still be unlocked. Whoever lived there probably thought Sam would have left sooner.

By the time Dean found himself past the dining room, the full weight of what’d he done slammed into him at the sight of a… zombie… dog… thing?

“Dean!” Sam called, being held back with the presence of the dog. The woman standing between the brothers glanced his way.

He had an easy opening. It didn’t seem as though she had any tricks up her sleeve, either. But no matter how much he visualized jamming a blade between her ribs or slashing at her throat, the dog was right beside her, and he couldn’t _move_. There was no possible way it could be a hellhound, but it looked so much like one.

With a grin, the woman began backing out of the room into the living area, where she’d be out of the way. “I guess your agent friend is becoming puppy chow first. Get him, Butterscotch!”  
Dean watched from a few feet away as Sam awkwardly stumbled back against the kitchen’s island counter, echoing the way Dean himself had dealt with becoming ‘puppy chow’ by getting trapped against the table and trying to use it for support.

If it was anything that pushed Dean into action, it was that god-awful term and the way Sam looked up to meet his gaze. For a split second, his younger brother wasn’t keeping his eyes on the threat, but pleading with Dean to do something. And when Sam asked like that….

The dog had hardly gotten a hold on Sam’s leg when it was forced to release and yowl in torment. This time, he had a real knife, and he was happy to stuff it into the dog’s meat again, and again, and again. Its convulsions thinned out, its wails more awkward and strained, until he stabbed in twice more in a row, and everything became still again. The dog lay unmoving. The rest of the house produced only silence. Eventually, Sam’s footsteps announced him reapproaching the scene.

“Well, uhm, Mathilda’s out of the way…”

Sam grew speechless as Dean rose and stepped away from the pooling blood around the dog. There was no helping it—he was absolutely covered in the red ooze. “Are you okay?” he asked Sam, ignorant of the stuff dripping from his arms.

Beyond his brother’s pants, which had suffered a small tear where the dog’s top jaw had managed to meet Sam’s leg, there was no other noticeable sign that he’d been in a fight. “Yeah, I’m good,” Sam answered with a concerned expression. “What about you?”

Dean felt a grin tugging at his lips. “What do you think?” His arms opened a bit to emphasize the energetic buzz still coursing through him.

“I think you look like shit.”


End file.
